


A Drunken Demeanor

by MaryLaine



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-05-18 21:56:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5944615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryLaine/pseuds/MaryLaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What starts off as a joke, turns into something more serious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crazy Little Thing Called Love

**Author's Note:**

> Goodness, finally managed to turn this into something publishable! My boyfriend and I started writing this story about six months ago, and then just let it die for quite a while, until [CatherineFox](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CatherineFox/pseuds/CatherineFox) brought it to life! (my writing guru)
> 
> It was just meant to be a silly little smutty one-shot, but now I realised that I haven't been able to post it because I really didn't want to wrap it up like that. So, turning it into a few chapters it is!
> 
> Of course, [with a little help from my friends](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SkyqRP8S93Y%20).

“What do you mean, you’ve never had a good blowjob?”

It was Roger who asked, his bewilderment as audible as it was visible, his eyes wide and cheeks colored in that distinctive shade of a glass of wine too much. The Saturday evening was closing in as it neared midnight, and the band, among a few other friends, had resorted to an outdoor pub. They’d decided to make good use of the after-show adrenaline that, ultimately, had them pumped enough for even the wildest party. The weather was pleasant too, which only added on; the uncharacteristically hot July days having transformed into warm evenings complemented by a light, cool breeze that was doing a good job at blowing Brian’s hair straight to his face and, quite conveniently, camouflaging the blush that the very sober guitarist could not prescribe to the expensive Chardonnay Freddie treated them to as a reward for a well-played gig.

“You asked, and I answered!” Brian elaborated ineffectively with a painful-striking expression, which made Roger exclaim a “Hah!” and fall back into his chair, bringing the rim of his glass to his lips, drinking as much as he could before he splurged out of control as he broke down laughing.

Brian shook his head and let out a sigh. “Well, unlike some of us,” he went on half-casually but directing his gaze in a tell-tale way towards the drummer, “I don’t sleep with every woman who comes my way. And  _come on_ ,” by this point he was openly addressing Roger, eyes locked, “You can’t possibly tell me that you enjoy it  _every_  time!”

“Like hell if I can’t!” exclaimed Roger instantaneously, as bemused as ever, wiggling his brows playfully which charmed out a chuckle even from John Deacon.

“Rog, everyone’s gone through a few bad ones,” Brian continued to reason. “There’s always that woman who thinks teeth feel good, or pulls at your thing like a vacuum cleaner, and no eye contact—or, God forbid, too  _much_  eye contact, and—“

He was cut off.

“The way you speak of this, I start to wonder if we’re even playing in the same band. And this coming from the bloody  _guitarist_ , to make things all the more unbelievable, which a Musicians-Shag-Rulebook would clearly state is the luckiest band member of them all.”

Brian shook his head again, looking aside. “Of course we play in the same band. But frankly, there wouldn’t be any room for more personality than Freddie already brings, so for the sake of the band, you better not be gay, Taylor.”

Roger snorted half-heartedly, but then turned serious, as much as the situation allowed him to. “You really should get around more. It’d be good for you. Take your mind off all that… whatever it is you seem to always be thinking about.” He tilted his head and pursed his lips in fake disgust, sipping some more on his wine as he watched his conversational partner go through a set of different faces.

“What?” Brian replied defensively, “I think about a lot of things!”

“Yeah, but it’s all the same, isn’t it?” Roger countered, “It’s all… deep.” He paused for half a second, before adding: “when the only deepness a guy who earns his keep by shredding an electric guitar should be focusing on is…” he waved his hands in a way that signaled for Brian to continue the sentence with what to him felt the most obvious thing on the planet.

However, Brian just looked at him, then at Roger’s hands, then rested his eyes again on his face, convening his skepticism in the most convincing glare he could produce. “I tried to find something clever to say, but it’s true after all that it’s impossible to respond to something stupid with something intelligent.”

“Bah!” Roger exclaimed, waving his hands now as if to shoo Brian off. “Fine, be that way. More for me.” He grinned his cheeky smile happily. His gaze darted across the table for a type of moral support and eyed everyone present; firstly John Deacon who, quite frankly, looked unimpressed and chiefly in character as he remained silent, then the random manager of the club they had just played at, who plainly shrugged his shoulders and wouldn’t meet Roger’s eye from that point on, skipped the few friends who were engaged in a conversation of their own, and lastly - Freddie. He, definitely more than anyone, should have a lot to add to the matter, is what the drummer optimistically reckoned.

The usually as extravagant in words as in appearance singer seemed a little unfocused, his attention caught elsewhere, and he was visibly oblivious to the silly chatter that went on among his bandmates. He appeared to share glances with someone across the room, although Roger could not distinguish whoever the current object of Freddie’s affection was. Roger attempted to redirect Freddie’s gaze towards himself by snapping his fingers loudly before Freddie’s nose, making an effort to stretch his arm all the way across the table to do so, and had the singer noticed, he showed no interest in gifting Roger a single glance. The drummer sighed, not content, but in surrender.

Brian May faked a cough, hoping to hide the slight twitch his lips formed without his supervision, and hid his satisfaction in having somewhat defeated the blond man, feeling no need to say much else.

They resolved to drink the rest of the wine, and then to spike things up even more, they ordered a round of vodka shots, making little conversation before everyone found their own spots in the party. The summer provided excellent prerequisites for an outdoor event, but the music was just as loud as ever and the people still smoked enough to make the air appear at least a little misty, so none of it was all that different from a regular pub. John had his Veronica with him, who spent most of the time chatting and dancing with Mary while the men drank, Freddie was long gone after they’d all simultaneously deserted the table, Roger was surrounded by a ring of giggling girls and Brian was about to slip out and head someplace farther away to get some air.

The stars shone brightly that night, and the tall man took a deep breath as he dwelled upon them, feeling at home. Getting away from all the commotion was a relief, and the solitude found only in the marriage of darkness and silence quieted his mind. He closed his eyes and turned his face against the soft summer breeze, his frizzy locks swaying over his forehead, when he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around in surprise and found himself face to face with an already obviously intoxicated Roger.

“Heya, what’s—whatchu lookin’ at?” Roger produced, a bit awkwardly, biting on his lower lip.

Brian looked at him without blinking. He’d barely even had a minute to himself. “Nothing,” he said quietly, unwilling to further disturb the silence he could feel already had begun escaping them, struggling not to snap. The conversation from earlier had him still a bit on edge. It wasn’t that he was upset, but…  _Oh, goddammit, he can’t know better than me!_  his thoughts shouted, and the sudden splash of vanity only worsened the feeling in Brian’s gut.

Roger cringed a little and looked even more awkward at the friendly, but not very welcoming response. He was uncharacteristically quiet for a while, almost thoughtful, obviously wanting to say something without knowing how to, and Brian felt his curiosity stir. He kept his eyes on his friend and waited patiently.

“Umm…” Roger began again, not looking at Brian at all. “So… if you would know for sure that it would be good, would you do it?”

Automatically, Brian’s mind rushed through all the things “it” could possibly refer to, but he found nothing, and, being Brian, he forced himself to do it again, just to be sure. The pause was obviously interpreted as something else though, for just as he concluded that the “it” was probably a general “it”, as in “if you knew  _something_ was good, would you do it, just because it was good?”, and rejoiced that Roger had obviously given some thought to the conversation on utilitarianism they’d had a few weeks earlier, Roger continued:

“Cause, you know, it wouldn’t become a thing. It’s just to make sure, you know? That, I don’t know, that we all knew what we were doing and not doing, so we can all enjoy this tour as much as possible… and all that.”

Brian didn’t know, but the thought of listening to even  _one_  more attempt at Roger explaining it didn’t appeal to him much more than going back inside and being completely surrounded by such talk, so he just agreed.

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

Roger looked up suddenly, surprised, and met his eyes. Brian realised that he’d probably said something more than he’d intended, but not knowing what, he returned Rogers gaze steadily. Did he really never permit people’s opinions before indulging his own, so much that they were literally bewildered when he just agreed on something? He always ignored all the comments to his perfectionism and precision, but surely outside of the studio, he was just another regular person.

“Really?” asked the drummer, his eyes appearing even bigger, as he blinked repeatedly in utter amazement, or whatever it was his drunk mind perceived that Brian’s couldn’t. The almost constant breeze picked up in intensity and, because of it, Brian couldn’t tell if the other man let out a sigh or had merely parted his lips.

Having now completely lost track of whatever it was they were talking about, the guitarist looked thoughtfully at his friend. Roger appeared almost sad, but also somehow excited, which was all the more confusing. At times like this Brian hated being the only sober one in the party, which happened to be nearly every time, his moral leaving him with little choice but to take care of his friends. It was a responsibility that came with the difficult question of whether  _now_  was the time to make sure his friend returned home safely. “Roggie?” he begun hesitantly.

“Mhm?”

The man still seemed immersed in a complex state of awe and awkwardness or whatever new palette of emotion Brian could see in him, so the guitarist decided that he was making the right call. “I think it’s time for bed,” he spoke more confidently, wearing a warm smile, hopeful that Roger would not protest and make the situation more difficult than it had to be.

Roger blinked, his eyes gaining more animation. “That’s exactly what I had in mind, Bri.”

For a moment, Brian felt like the best friend on the planet, having so easily made the right suggestion, a feeling that faded as he promptly jumped to his feet and the helping hand he offered to Roger, who had never stopped staring at the taller man’s face, was completely ignored.

Brian shifted from one foot to another, a little impatiently. “Roger, we really should get going.” He extended his arm even further, this time with success as the drummer seemed to break from a trance and snap back to reality quickly, grabbing Brian’s fingers uncomfortably and getting to his feet as unsteadily as hastily.

The taller man led his friend back into the party, slowly wading into the ocean of sound as they moved closer to it, Roger’s mind seemingly in a different place. They emerged on the other side and Brian waved to one of the drivers who were waiting for the band-members to want to head home. He led Roger into the back seat himself, and then sat down next to him, but when he closed the door, an intense feeling of intimacy that he had not expected came to surround them.

In the car, after a short while, Roger almost seemed to sober up. He sat very still, only his hands slowly fidgeting, his eyes fixed on his own lap, lost in whatever it was he was feeling. Brian thought he wore the same look as he did when composing a drum-section for a new song; focused, but not on anything that could be seen, heard or felt. As the car stopped outside of their hotel, Roger opened the door on his own and stepped out, confidently, more steady on his feet now. Brian, however, still went up to him and put an arm around his shoulder for support, expecting to be waved off in a some silly form of male bravado, but to his surprise, Roger actually leaned into him, if only just a little bit.

Walking into the nearly quiet corridor that lead to their individual rooms, Roger began to move more slowly, every step heavy, his face shaping the most nervous expression the guitarist had ever seen on the man. His friend had never been known for being so entranced in his own thoughts, and anxiety was a feeling he had always seemed entirely unfamiliar with. The back of Brian’s mind tried to find a memory of ever seeing Roger in a similar display, but he pushed his inner curiosity away and focused on the task at hand.

“Is there something wrong, Rog?” Brian finally had to ask.

“No no no, no.” Roger hurriedly assured, gesturing quickly in front of his body, and then taking a short step towards Brian, sneaking his hand into the other’s, and pressing his chest against the taller man’s arm. He looked up and met the eyes of a Brian who was now convinced there was something in the room that scared the drummer. He wracked his brain in a vain attempt to remember how much they’d had to drink, but definitely, Roger had had plenty more, and it wouldn’t have made much difference even if Brian could recall. The situation was weird beyond a level that any explanation could justify.

“Would you prefer to lie down in my room, Roger?” he asked with a confused, but understanding smile.

“L..  _l_  lie down?” Roger uttered disbelievingly.

“Yeah. It’ll feel better, I promise.” Brian tried to sound assuring.

Roger still looked a little bewildered, but he nodded quickly.

Brian smiled, took a firmer grip of Roger’s hand and turned back towards his own room. The guitarist felt a little flushed—despite being used to the physical closeness brought on by drunkenness, especially in similar situations—from being subjected to whatever it was that bothered Roger, and he was greatly looking forward to tucking his friend in before another odd topic or gesture fueled by alcohol could arise. But, he was most definitely not in luck, because the minute the pair found themselves inside their private four walls, Roger’s face came to resemble a crimson shade unlike anything Brian had ever seen. For a moment, the taller man wondered whether his friend was in need of medical help.

As soon as Brian opened his mouth to say something – anything, Roger blurted out something that sounded like “Ineeda takapiss” and vanished as quickly as his feet would allow, leaving the other man even more stunned and worried, his abandoned hand feeling cold and weirdly sweaty.

Brian absent-mindedly wiped his hand off on his trousers, looking in the direction Roger had disappeared, as if merely staring at the door would somehow make sure his friend was alright, then looked at the bed. It was clean and tidy, as always. No reason it wouldn’t be. He heard the water run in the bathroom and looked at the door again. He carefully lowered himself on the bed, his fingers playing with the silky fabric of the covers as he fell in deep thought. It was oddly unsettling, sometimes, to be the sober one in the party. Surely, Brian liked his vodka well enough, but he'd never had the opportunity to drink so irresponsibly that he'd have to be taken home by one of his friends. It always had to be him, really, no matter how much he'd had to drink himself, who lead the group back to their rooms. Upon further thought, he figured that perhaps Roger had mixed something else with the alcohol that had him feeling on edge, because no matter how intoxicated the drummer would get before, he was still his cheerful self without exception.

It took a few minutes for Roger to reemerge, and Brian’s body shot up as if he was caught doing something forbidden. The drunk man took a few steps forward and practically fell down on the bed, laying his head back, putting one hand over his forehead and panting with an open mouth, as if his head was spinning. It probably was.

The room was silent and Brian wasn’t sure how to proceed. “You wanna get those off, before you get all sweaty?” he asked the first thing that came to mind, nodding to Roger’s body. Having lived together, and with all the touring, Brian was only bound to know that his friend never slept in clothes.

Roger twitched and made a weird sort of smile that Brian had never seen before. The drummer stretched his hands up over his head, inviting Brian to help him, looking like a little boy. It wasn’t unusual to help each other get ready for bed, especially considering the strong presence of alcohol—they still practically lived together, even though they could afford not to be roommates anymore.

Brian leaned forward and aimed to grab Roger’s shirt, but was instead caught in the not surprisingly strong arms of the drummer, who pulled Brian in and placed a decisive kiss on his lips. It only lasted a few seconds, but Brian’s mind froze in shock. His senses came back to him quickly and too heavy. He jumped away and made sure to create safe distance between himself and the drummer, eyes wide in shock. “Wait—what— _Roger_!—are you—“

“Brian, I’m sorry, I—“ Roger cut in.

“—completely out of your mind!?”

Brian’s voice was so loud that the other man let out what sounded like a frightened yelp. Neither knew what to say for a series of moments, they just stared into each other’s eyes in despair, irrevocably shooting questions at one another. Brian flexed his jaw as realisation dawned upon him. As things began to fall into place, he felt increasingly cornered, something he was sure could be read all over his face. Even things that had no real connection with anything in reality seemed to be parts of an ongoing seduction of him, and everyone was in on it. He felt like a fool.

 “Have you been planning this all along?” he blurted out once his brain put together all the puzzle pieces.

“Wha— _all along_?”

“Yes, Roger, this entire evening with the conversation about…  _about blowjobs_ , for Chrissake, and the way you followed me outside and God even knows what other things you’ve done before!”

Brian was angry and even worse so, confused, something which more effectively than anything could get the usually wise, collected man to speak uncontrolled words.

Roger looked small, and his voice was very low when he spoke, though a hint of anger had now creeped into it. “Really, Brian? If I wanted to devise a plan to deceive you, I’d fucking come up with something more intelligent, don’t you think?” His tone gradually rose. “I wouldn’t get fucking hammered and fucking ruin—“

And then he caught himself. The drummer froze for a second and slapped a hand over his lips, as though to prevent further words wandering out, something he rarely ever bothered to do. Roger had no shame in being a stubborn git till the end. He blinked rapidly because he couldn’t look away from Brian’s fixed gaze, and when he finally recollected himself, he jumped to his once again unsteady feet and staggered for a while until his friend hurried to support him.

Brian was never one to give in easily as a rule. But every rule makes room for exceptions, and the unreadable, worrying expression that Brian had never before seen on the blond man’s face told him to get off his high horse and hear if there’s more to this confusing night.

“Are you okay, Rog?” he asked a little awkwardly and hesitantly, as his hands steadied his friend, and Roger shook his head vigorously.

It came after a short, daunting silence: “God, Brian, can’t you see how much I fucking love you?”

The shining, blue eyes of Roger Taylor portrayed the most wounded and tainted soul Brian had ever seen. The words of the drummer’s raspy voice still echoed in the beige colored four walls, with seemingly no intention of fading any time soon, as the seriousness with which they were uttered became crystal clear. An overwhelming sadness took over whatever anger Brian still held onto, and a silent, heavy sigh escaped his lips. He had no clue how to proceed, or what anything meant anymore, and the night began to feel much longer all of a sudden. Heavier. And in his unexpected exhaustion, his mind dead and unable to comprehend the situation, Brian May gave in.

“Roger, you should go to bed, it’s really late and you’ve been drinking so much and—“

The guitarist’s shaky, slow voice was interrupted by another kiss. But this one wasn’t forced, if sudden, as the previous. The shorter man rose slightly on his toes, and when their lips met, it was soft and warm and gentle. Brian May let himself forget who it was he was kissing for a moment, because the kiss was simply spectacular, and he let his sadness and any other emotion he felt out through the slow, lingering touches of lips. When Roger pulled away, Brian’s eyes were still shut tight.

“I’m sorry, Bri, I… I thought you wanted this too,” Roger said softly, the husky tone of his voice the only thing that really sounded like him. When Brian opened his eyes, he was certain that there were tears in the other man’s eyes.

“Roger…”

The other man shook his head. “It’s true. I’ve wanted to do something for such a fucking long time, Brian, I just—I  _knew_  you wouldn’t be interested.” Roger sounded as sober as ever, surprisingly calm and collected. The way he spoke, it was though as he was sharing a long, tiring story that everyone had heard a thousand times before. He paused to consider his words for a moment, as the unresponsive Brian gave him plenty opportunity to do so.

“But tonight, I really didn’t mean to… to sneak up on you, I swear.”

The taller man let out a sigh he felt he’d been holding forever. He took one cautious, slow step away, unable to redirect his gaze back at Roger. He had no words, nothing to say. It was a situation he would have never in a million years deemed possible, and he was deadly scared of the consequences. He took his time to consider what to do next. His movement remained slow as he headed for the bed, upon which he fell with a thud, immediately covering his face with his palms. “God, Roger,” he mumbled, barely coherent, but it didn’t matter. His friend followed him, sitting down next to him, but not doing anything else.

They sat in silence for minutes that felt like hours.  _How could I not see this coming? How can you not notice when your best friend falls in love with you?_  Brian’s head was pounding with questions he knew no answer to, nor could he bring himself to even attempt at asking, and in the end, the best he could come up with was,  _because Roger isn’t gay, and neither am I_. But was that true? Brian had in no moment noticed Roger show any interest to anyone besides big-breasted women. No, not that he could recall. Sure, Roger hung out with Freddie more than the rest of them, if only slightly, but hell if that was supposed to indicate that— _No, it can’t be_.

Suddenly, it dawned upon Brian, that maybe he was the one who needed a good night’s rest. He did his very best to leave the bed silently, intending to sleep just about anywhere if Roger was in his bed, and when he reached the door, he turned around, and that was his mistake. There was definitely tears in Roger’s eyes, but whatever pride was left in the blond man had him turn his head away from Brian. Clearing his throat loudly, he uttered a defiant “I’m sorry,” and then rolled away to the farthest corner of the bed away from Brian.

Perhaps it was the alcohol finally catching up with him, in a form of sinking feeling in Brian’s chest. He watched his friend lay there, looking slightly too shattered than Brian could allow, and so without thinking much, but following this new feeling, he quickly switched out the light and lay down beside Roger.

It was a long, long night, and without another word, the two men fell asleep.

 

 

 


	2. Feelings, Feelings

 

Dawn came quick and persistent, which was awfully inconvenient as Brian May was cursed with the habit of awakening as soon as the sun rose. It wasn’t necessarily a catastrophe, as the guitarist rarely had trouble returning to blissful slumber very quickly, but when the intense rays of light filled the room on this particular morning, Brian knew that it was time to face reality. He half-desperately squeezed his eyes shut, as though that would suddenly revoke his unwelcome state of wakefulness, but in vain, as it always is. With a sigh of frustration, he quickly gave up. Instead, he allowed his eyes to travel to the snoring figure next to him, and for a dominating moment, he considered sneaking out and pretending the previous night had never happened.

But, another curse that had snuck up on Brian May, since as far back as he could remember, was the fear of being an obvious coward.

So, for the sake of friendship, he convinced himself that it’d be best to just remain under the exceedingly warm covers, with patience and determination to face his best friend. The ultimate confusion and awkwardness caused by Roger proclaiming his well-hidden romantic feelings for him made it hard, but Brian knew they had to somehow resolve whatever it was that the alcohol and exhaustion had prevented them from resolving just hours previously. In his head, it all sounded simple, mature and rational – he should just tell Roger not to be silly. However, once the room fell silent and he felt Roger stir next to him, Brian was overwhelmed by his racing heart and a panic he hadn’t felt since the first time he had to go up on a big stage.

Roger turned to his friend heavily, and once their eyes met briefly in the early morning, Brian could see his own sense of urgency and panic reflected on the younger man’s now wide open eyes. Roger parted his lips to suck in a long, hissing breath between his teeth. He almost trembled as he turned back away quickly. A very low “ _fuck_!” escaped him in a raspy whisper, the full weight of the actions his spontaneity had led to the previous night now hitting him, with no alcohol to help absorb the impact.

“Fuck,” echoed Brian a little more calmly; a very uncharacteristic word for him to start the day with. He was still looking at Roger, although the other did his best to avoid the gaze, not because it could help the situation, but because he was clueless.

The drummer brought the back of his hand to cover his eyes. “Is there a chance in hell where we can just forget it all?”

Brian’s insides cringed at the shame and regret most evident in Roger’s voice. “We can try,” he offered, half-hopeful, but completely unconvinced.

“Fuck,” Roger repeated, as he knew very well how little chance they had of doing anything but remembering every detail.

Eventually, though, as they were bound to, they managed to squeeze past the awkwardness. Brian felt a huge pang of relief as soon as Roger left for his own room, the privacy giving him space and a moment to collect his fuzzy thoughts. But, it could only last so long, before the guilt took over. He kept tossing and turning in his bed, which suddenly felt too big and empty, battling an awful feeling in his gut that, even more than the sun, made sure he wouldn’t be able to get any sleep.

They made it through the entire day, right up to the evening show, successfully staying out of one another's sight. The gig itself did not require much communication between the two, however much they were between the same four walls. Brian managed to sneak a glance at the drummer during one of his solos, hoping to catch Roger looking at him, because it was always in those moments that the guitarist had the most eyes on him, but Roger had his gaze fixed elsewhere as though to make a point. After that, he didn’t bother with another attempt.

The rest of the show was uneventful, within the borders of any Queen performance, except for an occasion when Freddie by reflex caught a rose expertly flung in his direction by someone in the audience, and stared confused at it for a few seconds, continuing to sing without thinking, but in a monotonous voice, making the audience laugh. Freddie, being himself, immediately caught himself and somehow squeezed in twice the emotion and power he usually put in the song, while taking a flamboyant bow, earning whistles and shouts from all directions. Still, Brian didn’t turn to see Roger’s amusement, as he normally would have, which turned out to be fair, because when the gig was over, Roger snuck past Brian without even granting him a look.

Brian found it odd how much it affected him emotionally. He was both sad and angry at the same time, not only because it felt like he was losing his best friend, but because he felt irrationally guilty about the whole situation. He was aware of how misplaced that guilt was— _he hadn’t brought this on in any way_!—which lead to frustration and shame and regret and… “It’s like I’m a teenager all over again,” he mumbled to himself dismally.

“What was that, dear?” Freddie chimed in from across the room.

Brian’s head shot up and he cursed himself mentally. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he could barely remember walking to the dressing room. It was only him and Freddie in there, who appeared genuinely curious as he stared at the guitarist expectantly.

“Just talking to myself, Freddie.”

The singer’s right brow shot up. “Snappy _and_ talking to himself,” he noted with a smirk. “Has something _dramatic_ happened?”

“I didn’t snap at you, Freddie,” defended Brian tiredly, pointedly ignoring the question.

“Oh, please, darling, you never end a sentence with a name unless you’re annoyed. You’ve been in a lousy mood all day,” Freddie went on, taking a few steps closer to the other man. It was funny how much data a person could gather from years of friendship, all the small tell-tale signs that to others were invisible, a friend could spot and draw a whole script from.

Brian stilled, appreciating the concern but at a loss for a reply.

“What have I missed?” pressed Freddie, keeping his voice light and cheery.

After prolonging the silence as much as he could, Brian let out a sigh and mumbled a “Just haven’t slept well, is all,” and spun on his heel, away from the singer. He cursed his transparence mentally because he knew what was coming. Freddie was known for putting his arse into other people’s business at a whim.

“Oh dear, did Roger vomit all over you again last night?”

Just hearing the name of the drummer and the previous night mentioned in the same sentence had Brian’s gut do an awful-feeling turn, and after drawing a ragged breath, he finally gave Freddie something that he would like to hear. “It does happen a lot, doesn’t it?” Brian said with a false cheerfulness that Freddie luckily seemed to misinterpret as mock seriousness.

“It does,” the singer agreed a bit thoughtfully. “You may have to start wearing a bib, dear,” he added in that dry humour of his that Brian had always been able to relate to.

Brian couldn’t help but smile a little, and trying clumsily to continue the positive mood, he spoke against his feelings, noting: “and a cane, to help me support the weight of half-carrying him to his room every night and putting him to bed, like a child.”

He smiled sheepishly with a joy he didn’t feel, and by some instinct turned around to see Roger standing at the doorway, as though in a prewritten ploy to make things between them as unimaginably uncomfortable as possible, looking at him with a face like none Brian had ever seen before. If the expression could be verbalized, it would be a loud scream of mixed anger and shame.

Brian’s eyes turned blank at the sight. When Freddie noted the new presence, his lips twitched in a brief, uncomfortable smile, before his self-control cracked and he broke down laughing. The two other men just stared at him wordlessly, and Brian was glad to have Freddie to focus on, but he was bent forward with one hand over his belly and the other covering his mouth, eyes crinkled as though he had never laughed so much before. Brian met Roger’s gaze for just a moment, the drummer’s jaw dropped in disbelief, his head shaking if only slightly. Brian wanted to apologize, but found that he couldn’t, and before he could have a chance to complicate things even further, he awkwardly slipped past Roger and stormed out as quickly as he could, the sound of Freddie's laughter following him like a tribute to the joy of the ignorant.

Surely, Roger could laugh it all off somehow, Brian tried to assure himself, he was more than capable of joining in on any joke. It wasn’t much comfort, but the silent agreement not to say anything, that was so clear to them both, gave him one less thing to worry about.

With the door of his hotel room locked behind him, defied by his weariness, Brian gave in and slept until the following afternoon. Once he woke, he was sad to find that everything was still the same. To keep his mind off of it, he went to check if any of the band members (but hopefully not Roger) were up and about, and when that failed he was back to square one—not for the lack of trying. Things had been much easier when they shared rooms. He was convinced that if he kept himself occupied with things that took focus, but not thought, eventually he would plainly accept the fact that his best friend got drunk and professed his love for him, and there was nothing that could change the fact.

Yet through his every carefully diverted thought, he would see Roger’s face. Over every memory hung the feeling of the drummer's presence, even the memories he hadn’t actually been a part of, as though they were all threatening to disappear, simply because Brian could not understand how he had been so blind if Roger had truly been in love with him all along.

It had really happened. And even worse so, there was not a single aspect of the entire situation he could bring himself to rationally comprehend. Certainly, he wasn’t the watchful man John Deacon could be, but Brian did pay attention to pretty much everything. It shouldn’t have been that hard to see his best friend’s feelings develop an unexpected twist. Or maybe… he’d been in love with Brian since they’d met, and the thought was bloody frightening. Perhaps that was simply all there was to it. One cannot see what one cannot understand. Brian was no exception, as he could never in a million years predict that homosexuality would include him personally in any way, no matter how much he accepted it and was aware of it, thanks to the powerful presence of Freddie. And at the very thought of the singer, he recalled how Freddie would often cite that people were all the same, just accessorized with different genitalia, and that it shouldn’t matter who you love as long as you do. Even though that reality was ideal and so easy to accept, Brian couldn’t bear the idea that a _man_ was in love with him, and even more so, that the man was his _best friend_.

The phone next to the bed went off and caught him in the midst of a hasty, aimless pace around the room, nearly frightening him to death. With a quick step he closed in the distance and picked it up, answering “Yes?” in a voice that, much to his dismay, couldn’t begin to cover up his turmoil.

“Oh good, he’s alive,” it was John Deacon on the other side of the line, and as soon as he finished the sentence, Brian could hear a shuffling noise and suddenly someone else spoke.

“Brian, we _know_ you’re boring, but dear, you could at least make an appearance when they throw a party in your honor!”

The guitarist rolled his eyes pointlessly and let out a sigh.

***

Freddie looked predictably bored and made no attempt to hide his feelings. Still, he watched Brian carefully as the man stared down at the glass of vodka in his hand, occasionally spinning it in his grip, and the fact that they could _hear_ the noise the ice inside made was clear enough indication that this wasn’t the place to be, even if it was just a Monday evening. There was no one else at the bar besides the two, and the only thing resembling a party was three floors above.

Brian himself was amazed that Freddie had agreed to meet for a drink before getting to the rest of the group, rationalizing that he must have appeared just as miserable as he felt and Freddie pitied him enough to give him a couple of private moments to sulk alongside a friendly face.

But it could only last so long.

“Brian—“ Freddie attempted at last, but was cut off.

“I know, Freddie, but just give me another minute, will you?”

The singer exhaled exasperatedly. “You said that five minutes ago, you know. And _look_ ,” he gestured with his arms dramatically, showing off the empty air around them, “we’re still here!”

Brian finally shifted his gaze and looked at his friend. His lips twisted in a small frown. “I just need some quiet to sort out my thoughts,” he told him honestly.

“And so I’ve noticed,” replied Freddie as sympathetically as he could, “but dear, haven’t you had enough of that? You’ve been on your own all day.”

“I just need another minute.”

“So you keep insisting. But… won’t you just get on with it, then? Whatever it is, just say it. It won’t kill you.”

Quite irrationally, Brian was about to protest and defend that there was nothing out of the ordinary about the situation, that there was nothing nagging at him and threatening to burst out at any moment, just two friends having a drink, but once he caught himself, he closed his mouth self-obediently. Freddie saw that and softened his voice, saying “whatever it is that’s been bothering you, Brian, the sooner you’re out with it the better.”

Brian had to agree. He let out a long sigh as he tried to gather his thoughts. “Listen, Freddie,” he begun without really knowing how to go on. “Do you—well, do you think I can ask you a question?”

Freddie raised his brows and gave an exaggerated nod, making Brian feel as eloquent as a drunk Roger, which was all he could think about, of course. He shook his head at himself, and so not to give Freddie a chance to comment on it, he tried to put his thoughts into words as bluntly as he possibly could. “Does Roger ever go out with you, Freddie?”

It came out as a strangled half-squeak of rushed awkwardness.

The singer stared on, blinking occasionally, unsure of the seriousness of the question. The other man’s face was blank and Freddie had no clue whether it would be appropriate or rude laugh. “Why yes he does, dear,” he sounded conveniently convincing. “We don’t just _pretend_ to be friends,” he added for a good measure of sarcasm.

“You know what I mean.” Brian felt his cheeks redden.

“No,” Freddie retorted, “no, I don’t.”

Brian decided he didn’t want to risk becoming as irritated with himself as Freddie so evidently was, which is why he said it.

“Do you think that maybe Roger likes men?” he asked bluntly, his gaze fixated somewhere irrelevant, which was quite a shame as he missed the sight Freddie Mercury’s face going through a well-connected series of expressions, starting with confusion, surprise, realization, and finally, acceptance.

When Brian finally looked up, he watched Freddie take a sip of his drink, and then another, until he finally murmured an “Oh, sod it”, downing the remaining liquid in the glass in one large gulp. For quite a few moments, he seemed devoid of emotion as his gaze was fixed steadily on the empty glass. When he finally raised his head to look Brian in the eye, an awkward smile played gently on this lips. It was when Brian shot a quizzical eyebrow up that he said, “He’s told you, hasn’t he?”

The guitarist didn’t even attempt to hide his skepticism at the question, even though his gut proclaimed a turn that threatened to purge out the little he had eaten all day long. “What do you think it is that he’s told me?”

And then, as if nothing had happened: “Oh, never mind.”

With that, Freddie got to his feet rather quickly as though this was the escape plan he had devised in his moments of silence, and he’d already started walking away when he waved Brian off. At this unexpected turn, Brian was left speechless, but he recovered almost immediately and jumped off his chair to catch up with the other man.

“Freddie, please, you’ve got to help me,” he pleaded breathlessly, feeling as though he’d walked a mile to get to this point.

Freddie didn’t bother to slow down, yet alone stop. “Brian, has it occurred to you that if you can’t say it out loud—whatever in the world is you’ve summoned me here for—that maybe this is not to best time for you to discuss it?”

The clarity of understanding the situation was audible in his voice, however he did not seem to care to offer much. Brian had to wonder if Roger had already gone and talked to Freddie. He had to pick up the pace the get to the door first and stop the flamboyant man, wordless again, albeit not for the lack of trying to produce a useful comment.

Watching the misplaced persistence of the taller man, Freddie sighed. “So he’s finally told you he fancies you, big deal, men like men, God will burn you in hell, all seen and done, life goes on. What should _I_ do about it?” he said in one breath, his sharp expression complemented by an impressively stern look.

“Uh… um, well—“

“What, you think you’re the only person who’s been subjected to a drunk Roger?” It was a sarcastic tone that brought the bad feeling in Brian’s gut back.

 “You mean, he’s done all that with you as well?”

Freddie’s brow shot up as a default reaction as he caught interest unexpectedly, and then his mouth twisted into a wicked smile. “Darling— _dear_ , if I had realized you two were up to—“

“Christ Freddie, I’m talking about the whole “I’m in love with you” speech!”

The singer chucked sweetly. “Oh dear, for a moment there I—“ Brian’s grimace stopped him quickly and he was given a moment to consider the other man’s words.

“Before we confuse each other some more, I’ll just quit this ridiculous talking around it.” Freddie paused to draw a breath. “On two drunken occasions, Roger’s half-demanded to know what I think about the unusual fact that, sometimes, he feels like he wants—well, he wants _you_ , and both times I’ve told him to just tell you, because, if you’re looking for anything to learn from me, it’s that yes Brian, shagging a hot piece of ass is quite nice, and just because I like arse it doesn’t mean I can sort this out for you two. So if you could just keep me out of it and go and talk to Roger instead, it would be grand. Being queer is not as scary and, I don’t even know— _extraordinary_ as you might think!”

And then, as an afterthought, he added: “Also, if you’d let me through the door, it would be great—there’s a party waiting for me.”

The small but significant shock that came over Brian after the whole speech was enough of an opportunity for the singer slip past him and disappear before Brian could say a word.

“How remarkable,” he uttered to himself, and with after a final darting glance across the vacated bar, he spun on his heel and headed to a place he knew he could no longer avoid.

It was quite a twist to find that, once he entered the loaded-with-people room on the third floor, everything about the world seemed to fall back into place. It was a feeling Brian was familiar with, having experience with disappearing into his own world for so long that he grew unused to the way life went on. It wasn’t hard to see where Freddie had turned out, in what universally could be acknowledged as the center of the room, and oh-so-quickly at that, next to a giggling Mary. But it wasn’t Freddie who Brian had to see, and regretfully, he looked around, trying to spot a particular blond drummer.

He couldn’t decide if he should be surprised to find him next to a beautiful, tall woman, immersed in what to no one who knew better would appear to be a deep and meaningful conversation. He decided against it. Whatever the drummer had recently revealed, this was, after all, as it used to be. Brian stood for another moment to study his friend, whose eyes were hidden behind unnecessary aviator sunglasses. He recognised the way his whole body sort of held its expression for a few extra moments after a joke, letting the silence pull the laughter out of the other person, which it invariably did; the way the other person’s laughter always brought a smile to the drummer’s own face. A somewhat egocentric smile, which Roger’s false modesty would never prescribe to.

Now was the time and Brian acknowledged it with a heavy, exasperated sigh. He made a bee line towards Roger, coming up beside him, put an arm over his shoulders casually and leaned into the conversation.

“I see you’re enjoying the company of the second most charming member of the band!” he interjected with a mischievous smirk that seemed to confuse the woman. Clearly the most charming member was not Brian. Roger’s hand moved to snatch the sunglasses away, revealing his sunken eyes, and he also looked at him as if he was trying to determine what Brian’s secret agenda was. The uncalculated proximity made Brian’s breath hitch in his throat. Roger looked like shit and Brian knew he was to blame for.

Roger’s brow curved at an expectant angle. _What do you want?_ , his expression read. Suddenly Brian regretted his momentary decisiveness and he wished he’d stayed in his room. To distract himself from the angry drummer, he looked towards the blonde, an awkward smile plastered on her lips by the intrusion. Brian silently noted that, had she not appeared to be positively besotted with Roger, he would have felt a little more sympathetic about the current situation. He was aware of his own impoliteness.

“Could you excuse us for a moment?” Roger muttered next to him, and before the woman could have a chance to respond, Brian was taken by his arm and pulled away to the corner of the room. It wasn’t a necessarily less crowded section of the room, but something about the walls being so close made it feel more intimate, and Brian, once again, felt trapped and regretful that he’d made himself do this.

“Would you _mind_?” said Roger a little too loudly, not trying to hide his irritation with the guitarist.

“I just—“

“Look, Brian, just go on ignoring me and talking—no, _mocking_ me—behind my back, will you? I don’t need your pity and I certainly don’t need you to interrupt as I _try_ to move on with my life!” he spat.

Brian was caught off guard by the hostility in his tone, not that he’d expected Roger to be overwhelmingly happy to see him. “Move on with your life—pity—Roger, we just… We—“

“We just what, Brian? _We_ didn’t do anything. _I_ kissed you, _I_ told you… I said things I shouldn’t have, I fucked up big time, and now what—are you trying to make me feel more miserable about it? It’s enough that you and Freddie had your laugh, isn’t it?”

Brian felt innocent and defensive but he could not bring himself to say a word, even though Roger seemed to wait for a response.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Brian May,” said Roger warningly and there was a surprisingly sad tone to his voice. “I’m not gonna sit around and wait for you to suddenly start loving me or something. I’m over it.”

Brian cringed at the finality of those words. “Roger, if we could just go somewhere now, and talk about this and you can explain—“

He was cut off sharply. “I don’t need you to _interview_ me.”

“Roger,” Brian’s voice softened, and he looked around at the busy room. “Please, just come with me outside so we can talk. It… it can’t make anything much worse, can it?”

Roger, as unwilling as he seemed, after a few moments of playing with the thought he silently nodded and started to lead them both out of the room. They didn’t make it past the hallway, but Brian was thankful for what he could get. He broke the short silence with the first thing he could think of. “I’m sorry about the thing with Freddie…”

He paused, as if waiting for a helpful response, but Roger just gawked at him with unbidden malice.

“It was all good fun.”

Sarcastic: “Uh-huh.”

“Oh come on, just cut me some slack, Roger. I thought it’d be safer to laugh about parts of it that were easier to share than the rest of it.”

“Yeah, sure,” supplied Roger and went back to his stoic state.

“You just really, really freaked me out back there.”

“What, did I turn up from under the covers and threatened to kill you with a sharp axe?” Roger scowled.

It was Brian’s turn to sort of roll his eyes. “Roger, don’t be like that! What was I supposed to do? What _am_ _I_ ,” he started to exclaim, “supposed to do? We can’t just throw away our friendship over this.”

Roger sneered and looked at the other many daringly. “Why not?”

Brian’s jaw dropped. He’d known that Roger wouldn’t grant him cooperation, but for things between them to be so bad… Anger began to rise in his bloodstream. “Excuse me? Roger Taylor, quit acting like a wounded egomaniac and just try to help me solve this rationally!”

“Rationally?” repeated Roger disbelievingly. “Pray, how might we do that, Brian? You’re obviously not letting any of us forget about this, so how else do you want to make it fucking go away already?”

The taller man snapped his mouth shut and felt seriously cornered. When a few moments were no help in collecting his thoughts, he spoke up without thinking. “Go away?” he said, “I wasn’t trying to… I mean I don’t… I know that—“

It was the struggling words that seemed to soften Roger’s expression. “What else can be done at this point, Brian?” he asked a little more sympathetically, his big blue eyes sparkling in a sad way.

The suddenly simple and cold reality met Brian harshly. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly.

A small smile appeared on Roger’s lips, the closest thing to apologetic that Brian could get out of him. “Just let us move on, Brian,” he said, and with that he turned around and started to walk away.

“Roger,” Brian said and made him turn his head back. “I’m sorry.”

The drummer offered another sad smile and left Brian alone in the dark hallway.

 


	3. See What a Fool I've Been

 

Brian May figured that once he knew what it was that he should do, things wouldn’t be so difficult anymore.

His life went on as he willfully pushed the very persistent thoughts about Roger away, and as more days passed, he had to admit it was getting easier. Things slowly returned to normal, which was not a hard process as everything that was wrong was mainly in Brian’s head. But even then, there were still moments when he’d look at Roger, and when the drummer would completely ignore him, Brian would feel a pang of guilt. The band had a break from performing for a couple of weeks, which gave the guitarist the perfect excuse to steer clear from his friends and sink into his own world, with the exception of a few mandatory events he couldn’t avoid. Those weren’t too emotionally demanding, because there was always a lot of people around and the two bandmates were not forced to socialize.

Roger’s efforts were limited to asking through Freddie if he was doing alright, when the singer had once called to check in. It was made clear that moving on was the cure and forgetting about it the treatment, and who was Brian to go back and nag Roger about it, when the blond man was no longer interested? Perhaps it was just the old cliché, that Brian only started to focus on Roger once he refused to show any feelings towards him, and whenever Brian caught himself thinking about the other man, he guiltily admitted to himself how flattering it was to have someone who knew him well enough and still liked him this much — at least enough for things to have gotten the way they now were.

And when, about a week later, he concluded he could no longer make any more progress in moving on, he decided to do the only thing that seemed logical at the time. He went to a gay pub.

The cautious man Brian May could sometimes be, he first made sure his friends were out somewhere far away from where he was headed that evening, because if there was anything he was sure of, it was that he couldn’t stand to have to explain himself. It wasn’t that he was doing something forbidden, really, but more that he was entitled to his own personal decisions, and when it came to exploring a part of himself that he started to become more curious about, he would feel greatly more relaxed if he were to do it on his own. He didn’t want his actions to make any statements he had yet to decide if he could ever possibly even lean towards.

At the pub, it didn’t take longer than a few minutes to conclude that it wasn’t the place for him. The place was full to capacity, and to the blasting disco music, the (mostly bare-chested) men were dancing with the utmost freedom of being at what must to them feel like home, lapping it up and having the time of their lives. Brian felt small, invisible and unwelcome, and if he were to be honest with himself, he was slightly frightened by the scene. It was barely two minutes spent inside, when he decided he needed to get away as quickly as possible, and was grateful he managed to do so unnoticed.

So there it was. He wasn’t gay. He exposed himself to an abundance of sweaty skin and, _probably_ , sexy men, and it didn’t catch his interest. Surely, it was a short chance that he’d given to the lifestyle, and he was intelligent enough to know that if he could not ascribe himself to the stereotype, it didn’t mean he had nothing in common with a homosexual man, but if he was into _that_ sort of thing, he would probably want to— _how was it that Freddie had put it_ —‘shag a fine arse’, wouldn’t he?

“Oh, am I tired of this!” he exclaimed to no one in particular and ignored the few wondering heads that turned curiously in his general direction as he walked away and towards where he knew Roger was. Because despite himself and all his attempts not to think about it anymore, it was Roger he wanted to see, and this time he fooled himself it was just to make sure that he wouldn’t get that awful twirl in his belly when he saw the blond head peak from the crowd, now that he made sure he wasn’t actually gay. The night was chilly, a pathetic excuse for summer that London often would offer, and Brian regretted having walked all the way instead of driving, and without a jacket at that. He fumbled with the uppermost buttons of his too-tight shirt that had his neckline exposed and eventually got them to close the shirt, not that it helped much.

When he reached his destination, he spotted John Deacon who was just about to enter the front door of the club.

“Oi, Deaky!” he shouted and caught his friend’s attention.

“Brian,” John said and stepped away from the entrance as he waited for the guitarist to catch up with him. “Glad to see you out.”

Brian produced a thin smile. “Fun night?”

Deaky nodded. “Just went to the corner kiosk to resupply,” he told him, holding up a pack of Marlboros.

“Is everyone inside?” Brian asked cautiously. He hadn’t shared any of his recent turmoil with the quiet member of the band, and he was positive no one else would have done so either, but he still didn’t want to show how obviously he could only think of Roger. Upon a second thought he decided that, after all these years, he still wasn’t sure how far Freddie’s love for gossip extended, and he frowned at the prospect that maybe John already knew, after all.

John shook his head no. “Freddie disappeared somewhere at some point. It’s just me and Roger. Some guys he knows came to hang out, so I left him with them.”

“Oh?”

“Ronnie didn’t feel like a night out,” John explained, and shivered. “Rather cold out. You coming along?”

Brian agreed wordlessly and the pair headed in simultaneously. The smoky and loud room, as stocked with people as the previous pub Brian visited, felt safe and familiar and Brian decided that, with the right amount of alcohol, he could stand another hour or two in Roger’s proximity without flipping out and taking him away for another pointless talk as an attempt to resolve his inner struggles.

“I’m gonna go get a drink, you want anything?” he shouted to John, who’s perplexed expression showed that he heard no words between the booming music.

“DRINK!” he emphasized dramatically, and John waved him off, so Brian headed away on his own. After waiting his turn for a good number of minutes, he downed his first shot of vodka in two large gulps, and ordered another. A man who stood next to him did practically the same, and they shared a knowing look. He was even taller than Brian and had brows that were dangerously close to uniting, and his eyes darted across the room to look longingly at a beautiful brunette next to a group of friends, which made Brian frown and look away. With the beverage in his hand, he went on to locate his friends, and there he was, the messy blond head that brought on what most commonly is referred to as “butterflies” in his gut, and he wondered if his expression mirrored the one he saw on the tall man just moments previously. Without another thought, he sipped his second drink away quickly, and walked slowly towards Roger.

The drummer acknowledged him from the distance with a nod and didn’t grant him another look. Brian’s heart sank to his stomach as Roger politely but effectively shut him out, and suddenly the walk towards the group of people seemingly gathered around the handsome drummer seemed much heavier, every step bringing him closer to a place where he did not feel he would be completely welcome. Still, his path set, and with no other place to go, he strode on.

As soon as he was near enough, Roger suddenly and unexpectedly turned to him and exclaimed, just a little too quickly, “…seen Freddie around?”

Brian inhaled a large breath to compose himself from the sudden attention he profusely tried not to over-analyse just then and there. “Just got here,” he supplied unhelpfully, sneaking in a friendly smile that Roger paid no mind to. He turned away without sparing a moment and made a visible effort to catch up with the conversation in the group that had been going on without him.

A breath Brian didn’t realise he was holding escaped him in a humorless laugh. Roger liked to do this kind of thing, making little conversation once in between eternities just so that it could be made clear he wasn’t to blame for anything, ensuring himself the valid alibi of making an effort. Brian was grateful to find John swiftly making his way right next to him. The bassist’s kind eyes studied him carefully for a couple of moments, before he lifted on his toes. “You alright, mate?” he said in his ear.

Brian nodded affirmatively, and John went on to look at the empty glass in Brian’s hand and frowned. “You do know you can talk to me, don’t you Bri?”

The guitarist nodded again.

“I worry about you, you know,” admitted Deaky and Brian winced at the look of sincere concern that seemed to blossom on his face.

“You shouldn’t. Honestly, I’m fine.”

John shifted a bit, tilting his neck upwards so he could catch Brian’s eye squarely. “I don’t mean to pry, but I guess that’s what friends are for sometimes. Spill it, Brian. If it’s that bad, we can get pissed afterwards, but at least you’d have talked to somebody. Gotten a different perspective.”

Brian knew that John just meant to be helpful, but for a moment he wished he could convey a convincing fake smile and give his friends some peace. He could have easily produced a dry remark and refused any help, but he was well aware that Deacon was right. “I did talk to Freddie,” he allowed unsurely.

“Shall we go get some air?” John offered, and, feeling as though he was resigning and belting for help, Brian accepted. He chanced another glance at Roger who made a point out of being distracted, and then walked outside with his friend.

The cool air surprised him yet again and a barely suppressed giggle made him spot two girls, just a short distance away, not older than twenty, looking at half the Queen members adoringly. John offered them an awkward smile, but quickly focused on Brian. Remembering the long and painful talk he’d had with Freddie before the singer could drag out the real problem out of him, Brian decided to cut to the chase without worrying much how John would react.

“Roger said that he loved me.”

There were a few dead moments of quiet. “Oh,” was John’s initial reaction, and for a brief moment, Brian believed he had managed to surprise the watchful man. “I figured, but I hoped that wasn’t it,” he admitted plainly, his expression uncomfortable and at an angle Brian couldn’t read well.

“So everybody knew,” he huffed half-sardonically and in self-mockery, for having been so blind was utterly displeasing.

“Not _everybody_.” John looked at him with a mixture of regret and pity. “He does talk a lot of... well, a lot more freely when he’s a little under the influence and you’ve got to look after him.”

“Freddie said that too.”

“Yeah, well, I get that it’s bothering you…” John trailed off and considered his words carefully. “But I wouldn’t take it too seriously. I mean, it’s just Roger after all. You know how he is.”

The taller man barely contained a sneer. “Well, the fact that I can no longer have a proper conversation with him does sort of imply that I have to take it seriously,” Brian tried to keep his sarcastic tone at bay, but little could escape Deaky. None of the mess was John’s fault, and he didn’t deserve to have it taken out on him. Somehow, the quiet man always got the worst of it, with all the drama the other three band members sometimes brought on. It being the quarrel over the B-side of the new single or what drink they should buy for their private gatherings back in the early days didn’t matter, because John stayed neutral for as long as humanly possible, until he was forced to take sides and speak up.

“Yeah,” agreed John, “But, Bri, he does often feel… infatuated with certain people, and then it goes away before you’ve had the time to give him any credit for it.”

Brian wrinkled his nose at what would normally have been a fun reference. “John, you should have seen his face when he said it. He—“

“Excuse me, but is it you, Brian and John?” cut in a young female voice, and Brian turned to see the two girls from before that stood on the sidewalk. “From Queen?” the shorter of the two added, to make sure it was clear.

Brian’s lips formed an automatic smile. “Yeah, hi,” he said as warmly as he could, and both of the unwanted company produced huge grins.

John mumbled a humble ‘hi’ as well and then there was silence until one of the girls started fumbling inside her purse. “So, um,” she began, while the other one gawked at John as if she’d just gotten her early Christmas present, “um, well, could you... do you think you could, uh” she was stuttering and Brian wanted to say something — anything, that would make help her form a sentence. “Well, could you sign this, here?” she finally pulled out a crumbled a piece of paper and offered it to Brian who took it with a smile.

“Do you have a pen?” he asked, and the girl’s face turned a bright shade of crimson and a warning state of panic.

Her friend sprung her arm forward and saved the situation. “Here,” she exclaimed, “here’s one, and, um, John, could you perhaps sign it as well?”

John happily took the pen and the both men scribbled their autographs on the tiny paper. Upon a second thought, John found the receipt from the Marlboro’s he’d bought earlier and with two more signatures, he ensured that the both girls were grateful and that, when they left the two men alone, they were satisfied.

The bass player didn’t hesitate to return to the previous subject. “Is it bothering you that you’re still thinking about it?” he asked with insight that made Brian fill up with envy.

Brian nodded plainly.

“Then there’s only one thing to it,” said John and crossed his arms at chest height. “Tell him how you feel.”

“I have, I…” Brian started to protest but he knew well enough that it wasn’t what John meant. “I really have to, don’t I?” He groaned when John nodded and kept his gaze averted from the other man, mostly because he was flooded by unbidden shyness at silently admitting how he couldn’t find a way to handle the situation, but also because he hated not being right. It was ridiculous how John could sort out his emotions so swiftly, and with so few words, after all the struggle Brian had had with them for a week. It wasn’t that Brian didn’t think of something as simple as having to talk to Roger about it, but the way John had put it as though it’s the only way, which Brian hadn’t be able to produce.

“And here’s your chance.”

Brian spun on his heel towards where John pointed his head, and saw Roger, who, as soon as he spotted them, started to approach his bandmates.

“Have you guys seen Freddie?” Roger asked as soon as the other two men were within ear-reach.

“No,” John replied, and both men turned to look at him. “But I’m thinking, we should all go and see where he turned out, just—could you guys wait for me right here? I’ll head to the corner kiosk to buy myself a pack of smokes. Promise to hurry. Alright?”

Brian’s eyes widened at John’s transparency and wanted to react against what he was intending to do, but Roger was quicker with his nonchalant “Yeah, sure” response and Brian had to settle for an evil glare.

Brian racked his brain for an ice-breaker and the best he came up with was, “How’ve you been doing?”

“Fine.” Roger’s voice was laced with intentional coldness and he didn’t seem to particularly mind that Brian struggled with making eye-contact.

The guitarist sucked in a large breath and inwardly cursed Roger for his unwillingness to cooperate. The blond man took out his own pack of tobacco, and lit a cigarette without giving much thought where he blew out the smoke, which quite conveniently headed straight for Brian’s nostrils and increased Brian’s impatience with the other man. Roger was well aware how Brian despised smoking.

“What about you?” asked Roger at last with a hint of innocence, as though to make up for being the world’s first class arse.

“Splendid,” came Brian’s reply, irritation creeping into his voice.

Roger didn’t seem to notice.

Brian didn’t know what came over him when, out of nowhere, he said in an accusatory tone: “ _You_ ’ve been out every night.”

The drummer grimaced as though he couldn’t decide whether to remain stoic or to laugh. He didn’t appear as perplexed as he perhaps should have at the out-of-place remark, in fact it seemed like he had expected this from Brian. “So?” he growled. “What’s new about that? And what business is it of yours, anyway?”

His tone had an edge of mind-your-own-business to it and made Brian prickle with defensiveness, however well he knew he’d stepped over the line. Much to his inner dismay, he blushed under Roger’s merciless gaze and bit his lip. He had nothing to say to that.

“Don’t even start again, Brian,” the drummer warned tiredly, practically reading the other man who by now felt infinitely inferior to everyone he’d talked to this night.

“Fine,” he snapped, and brought a hand so his fingers could squeeze the bridge of his nose. He tried to rub a headache away that was threatening to form. With one deep breath, he made an attempt to gather himself. “How about this, then,” he begun impulsively, because he could no longer let any of this go on. It had to end. He saw Roger’s car parked nearby and something seemed to click. “Why don’t you drive me home?”

Roger eyed him suspiciously, and as though to hide his confusion, he brought the cigarette butt to his lips and sucked in a long breath of smoke. “Why would I want to do that?” he questioned cautiously.

“Well, it’s rather cold out, for one, wouldn’t you say?” He could practically feel Roger roll his eyes. “And I’ve walked all the way here.”

“You live two blocks down. It can’t have been a big challenge, and surely you can get back home just as easily.”

“I’d really appreciate it if you gave me a lift, though.”

“But you hate it when I drive. Too fast, too reckless, I’m utterly terrible at it; you complain every time and I’m sick of it.”

Brain tensed his lips to hide the smile that he now felt begun to creep over them. Even understanding perfectly why Roger did it, he found himself amused at how the drummer could ever let a chance to gloat pass him by like this. “I don’t hate it…”

“And I’ve been drinking.”

“Well, you’re not drunk, and—“

“And we’re waiting for John.”

“Roger,” the guitarist raised his voice insignificantly, but the emphasis he pressed upon the name caused a change in Roger’s expression, if only slightly. “Just take me home, will you?”

“But John—“

“—is a conniving adult who’s ensured we’re left alone with each other, so what do you say? My place?”

There was a pause for silence which Roger used to throw his half-smoked cigarette on the pavement and step over it. “Right, but I’ve got one condition.”

A flood of mixed relief and a sinking feeling came over Brian.

Roger saw it and snickered. “No seat belts.”

***

Freddie had once said, “Darlings, it’s never ‘home’ if there’s no liquor cabinet,” and fortunately it stuck with Brian, who was surely glad to have something strong to pour both himself and Roger. It took some convincing to come inside, but there he was, the blond drummer in the flesh with furrowed brows, his foot tapping an impatient beat as he sat in a chair. When Brian handed him the drink, he inspected it seriously before pointing the bottom of the glass up, and once it was empty, he gave it back to its owner, who obediently gave a refill.

The guitarist lowered himself cautiously on a chair opposite Roger. He could swear his legs were still struggling with balance, after having clenched his muscles tight in Roger’s car, in a prayer to stay calm and in one place, without crying out for Roger to drive like a responsible, mature adult. It couldn’t be too difficult to just spare an additional minute of your life and take the short ride at a _regular_ pace, could it?

“I went to a gay pub this evening,” confessed Brian to break the silence. Roger was expressionless but his tapping changed rhythm for an instant, effectively betraying that the apparent indifference was just a mask. Brian noticed but didn’t expect for Roger to reply, and yet he knew he had to explain himself. He inhaled sharply through his nostrils. “I’m not gay,” he stated simply.

Roger gave the smallest nod.

“And you’re… you’ve been out with all these women and… and I can’t understand what it means.”

It was a point when, with the previous days archived in his experience, Brian finally found strength to avoid the talking in circles and let Roger know what was on his mind. Like everyone had told him already, really.

“It has nothing to do with—“

It was a raised voice that Roger began with, but he stopped and made an effort to compose himself. “What I said, Brian, I… I was drunk and… I’m just very fond of you, alright? We’re friends and it’s normal. Can we leave it at that? I was drunk and got confused and now it’s over, you very well know I’m out with a different woman every night and—“

It stung to listen to it and Brian had to interject. “I was there when you said it.”

“Bri...”

“I was there,” Brian repeated a tad more steadily. “You don’t need to deny it now. I mean, it can’t make a difference, and, well… I’m glad I know. I don’t understand it at all and I have no clue where it came from, but Roger… you should’ve known better and gone out and just told me. There’s no making it go away now, I don’t know why you want to, and… I don’t _pity_ you, for chrissake!”

His friend’s face softened somewhat, and the smallest of frowns took over the corners of his mouth.

Brian frowned too. “I can’t stop thinking about it, Roger…” he confessed gently, using the rare moment when the tension between the two was not at a peak, and his eyes searched for those of his friend.

With his careful façade slipping another fraction, Roger produced the closest thing to a playful smirk Brian had seen in him since that fateful night. “I know Brian, you’re popular for overthinking just about anything and everything.”

He sounded so ordinary, so much like the Roger he missed. The butterflies in Brian’s belly came alarmingly suddenly and it was all he could do to stay in his spot and not leap forward to embrace Roger—his best friend, who perhaps was not lost forever and he could still bring him back. A beam spread over his expression and he didn’t bother to hide it. He just sat there, staring at Roger, his overused melancholy making way for a sensation of hope he’d been sure was long lost.

Roger, on the other hand, struggled to arrange his face into a normal human expression, until eventually he shook his head, exclaiming, “Oh _Lord_ , what is it now?”

“It’s… It’s still just me, Roggie, I’m still the same person.”

“Yeah, I know, Brian. That’s the problem. I fucked it up, I—“

“Then why complicate things? Why—why do we have to ignore each other and have this tension just because, well, because you kissed me?”

Roger glared at him blankly _. Are you even serious?_ his eyes were shouting, but Brian didn’t care.

“It was just a kiss,” the conclusion came easily.

“And a fucking drama of Shakespearian proportions, is what it was!”

“Roger! Just—“ Brian jumped off the chair. “Just let it go already. Come on, get up,” he instructed with his arm stretched out, “come here already!”

When Roger wouldn’t do as he was told, Brian grabbed him by his arms and practically forced the man upright, successfully managing to make Roger drop his glass in the process. Brian didn’t even wince at the mess. “Come here,” his voice was fierce but soft, a combination that along with the surprise had Roger nearly trembling before him. They stood so close that Brian could feel Roger’s hard breathing, a consequence to the exercise he was put through.

“It wasn’t _bad_ , Roger. You just caught me off guard,” and with that, Brian buried his fingers in those messy strands of hair, and pulling Roger as close to himself as he could, he leaned down and kissed him. And with _this_ kiss he was the one who caught himself off guard, and Brian hadn’t quite decided just yet if this was what he wanted, but he knew, in that moment, he just wanted to try once more.

Roger held his breath, his body motionless and in the same spot Brian had dragged him into. At all of Brian’s efforts to cajole him into the kiss, he didn’t respond, and Brian pulled away. Their eyes met for a breathless moment and Roger gasped weakly, his eyes full of emotion Brian couldn’t even begin to interpret, lifting a tentative hand to separate them, but Brian took the opportunity and delved forward once more, capturing the drummer’s lower lip lightly, carefully, so that if Roger wanted to pull away, he really could. But he didn’t, and Brian could swear that the stubborn man was giving in. Hopeful, he coaxed his lips further apart and attempted a search for Roger’s tongue, who somewhat mechanically joined in on the dance, and for a short while, it was perfect. Roger’s mouth was warm and soft, and it was the sweetest thing that Brian had ever had a chance to explore. He tasted vaguely of cigarettes and alcohol, a combination that oddly felt familiar and safe, just as Roger ought to taste. His body radiated a heat that rose gradually as the kiss progressed. Brian felt the sudden urge to pause, to capture and collect every moment, and, breathless, he backed off a little, but not too far, resting his forehead on Roger’s.

Roger’s eyes were shut tight and he let out a shallow breath. Hesitating, he moved his head and let his lips ghost over Brian’s, as though testing unknown waters, and Brian pushed his thoughts away and went all the way in; he kissed Roger again, a real two-sided kiss that sent his insides on roller-coaster rides, his heart pulsating heavily against his chest, a new kind or rhythm his body had just discovered. Roger’s gentle lips were gaining a passion and intensity that sent shivers down his spine, and Brian had no clear perception of how long it lasted; perhaps it was just a fraction of a second, or an undefined eternity. It was unlike anything he’d ever imagined, his skin burning with unfamiliar lust whenever it would come in contact with Roger, who had wrapped his arms tight around the taller man’s neck. He fought back thoughts that were trying to recall all the times he’d looked at those lips, without ever stopping for a moment to think about all the things they could do, of how nice they would feel.

Roger’s thoughts began to glue themselves together from the shattered mess they had become, and, retreating sharply, he let out a “Wait, no, Brian… what are you doing?”

Brian could have easily asked himself the same question and gotten no wise answer. “I guess I’m just following what you started,” he replied cautiously, his insides cringing at the sudden dissatisfaction that creeped onto Roger’s expression.

“Aren’t you a little bit late with that?” Roger’s voice was small and barely recognizable. It was an aural reminder of the tone he had when Brian rejected him. A mixture of wounded hope and dispelled feelings that radiated a certain kind of sadness that Brian couldn’t find it in himself to take.

“Maybe I am…” he allowed and took a brief step backwards. He brought up a hand to cover his eyes and shook his head slowly. “Maybe… maybe I don’t know what I’m doing.” He dared to look at his friend again, even though he knew that there’d be a hurt, angry grimace on Roger’s face. He was right. “I don’t know what I want, Roger, I really don’t. But you do, don’t you? Isn’t this what you want?”

There was a specific hint of desperation in his tone.

Roger clenched his fists and bit on his tongue, in an attempt to stay calm. It didn’t work. “How fucking typical,” he spat, and groaning, he cursed under his breath, trying to ignore the hurt the other man had inflicted. “What, you just decided my feelings can be your perfect experimental rat, huh?”

Roger was breathless with disbelief and Brian had a million excuses and apologies flying over his head in the short silence that stretched between them. Roger’s voice still echoed in the room.

“It’s more complicated than that, you have to know that!” was the best Brian could come up with. He heard a note of whining in his voice and winced.

“Get your stupid head out of your fucking ass and think for a moment about anyone except for yourself, Brian!”

“I _am_ thinking about you, Roger! Can’t you see that? I can’t fucking get you out of my head!”

“So, what? You’ve been bothered, and now this is some sort of way for you to get me out of your head?!” Roger’s face had gone nearly purple.

“No! That’s not what I mean!” Brian was now gesticulating wildly with his hands, because shouting no longer felt enough. “I don’t know what any of this is supposed to mean and you’re the one who started it. You can damn well stop being so angry with me and try to help me with this!”

Roger’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I may have—I _did_ start it, but fucking hell if I’m the one who brought it to this.”

He was no longer shouting, but Brian couldn’t tell whether this was an improvement or not.

“I’m just trying to figure it out. I’m not like you. I don’t go after my next big adventure every night. I don’t tag along to all the parties you and Freddie go to, and frankly if I ever bothered to, maybe I could’ve seen this coming. Or at least I wouldn’t have been so overwhelmingly shocked by it. I’m sorry, Roger, okay? I’m sorry I didn’t see you fall in love with me. I wish I did. I wish I could’ve known this would come and done something about it before I dragged us into this whole bloody mess. I wish I could’ve considered… that, that I don’t know, maybe I should’ve opened my mind to look at you the way you’ve seen me, or—or that I had any fucking clue how to love a man!”

Brian looked at Roger desperately, searching for clues and was terrified in finding none.

Roger did not look convinced, his eyes still narrow, but he didn’t say anything. For a second, neither of them did. Then Brian took a step forward, and with a ferocity that underlined his previous words, he grabbed Roger by the shoulders, and pushed him into the wall. He reached for the back of Roger’s head and looked him straight in the eyes. Roger didn’t flinch, but stood immovable, as if to challenge Brian to convince him.

“And I know now,” Brian’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I _do_ want this.”

Roger had several things rush into his conscience at the same time, the unexpected strength with which Brian had him pinned, the dead seriousness with which his words were uttered, the shivering that seemed to fight for control over his whole body; the depth of the gaze that was plastered on him, determined to play out whatever Brian seemed to be doing, yet waiting for approval for the next move. Then, for the third time that evening, Brian kissed him. It was slow at first, but drenched in a strong sensation that none of them could put a finger on, quickly growing more voracious as Roger began to respond.

Before he completely lost track of time and reality, Roger managed to press out “If you fucking change your mind about this, I’ll bloody murder you!”

Brian silenced him with another kiss.


	4. Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there goes that. Perhaps it’s just a silly little fic—scratch that, it most definitely is a silly little fic—that I’ve written, but I’ve honestly never been as fond of anything else I’ve ever worked on before. Took me ridiculously long to finish it (started it in August 2015), which was mainly due to the fact I had no real inspiration behind it except my exquisite fondness of Queen and the concept of Maylor, and frankly, I was making it all up as I went. But I’m glad I did, it’s a footprint to several vastly important moments in my life and I am glad to be able to go back and have this completely unserious, short story as a reminder of them all. On top of it I’ve discovered I’ve immensely enjoyed writing this, so who knows, maybe I’ll throw myself into writing a real Maylor fanfic one of these days.
> 
> But that’s enough about me, wouldn’t you say? To anyone who ever reads this, I hope I’ve contributed at least some pleasant entertainment in your life, which has been my absolute pleasure. Now off you go, there is fluff awaiting.

Circa a month later

 

“Roger?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I open my eyes now?”

Roger let out a loud, exasperated sigh. His lover’s frustration was becoming contagious, but he had to bear with it if Brian was not going to – which, at this point, he had to admit was becoming quite a bit of a challenge.

“ _No_ , Brian, you can’t.”

His voice ludicrously resembled that generic tone he’d hear himself use around little children and he wanted to smack his own head for it. This moment was supposed to be _bloody perfect_ , and five minutes in, it was already unpleasantly apparent that Roger Taylor—despite having had his unrequited love returned at last, which _did_ ultimately serve to pump his ego and boost his confidence as it was bound to—could still be reduced to a nervous, highly irritable and self-sabotaging idiot. _If you would only think things through every odd time you put your empty head up to something, you’d save yourself a lot of… well time, energy, nerves, embarrassment, trauma,_ and in his thoughts, the self-deprecating list went on.

“I thought we agreed you’re going to give me a few minutes of your life and let me surprise you,” he almost whined.

“But you’re just sitting there!” Brian protested in a matching tone.

“ _Good_ _Lord_ , did you peak? I told you not to!”

“I didn’t peak, for Christ’s sake!”

“Oh really, well how else would you know I’m doing nothing, then?” Brian had to snicker as he could practically hear Roger roll his eyes in that superior way of his. “Is ‘freaking psychic’ the latest addition to your long list of talents of genius and foresight now?”

The vulnerability was thick in Roger’s voice, and Brian chuckled in amusement and marveled at how after all the intimacy the two of them had shared during the previous month, which had unavoidably led him to discover all sorts of aspects of Roger that he could never have imagined, Roger was still just his ridiculous old self. This was a comfort to Brian, as Roger at times during the month had seemed almost unnaturally happy, which had of course been a blessing, but Brian had a hard time trusting blessings. If something was too perfect, he found himself holding his breath and suspiciously eyeing the situation, waiting for everything to come crashing down. Thus, every time Roger was being petty and pouting, shouting, whining or generally causing a fuss, it was as if all the happiness before that point was suddenly set in stone; suddenly part of something that felt real.

“I’m not deaf, Roger,” he retorted through a smile. “I can’t _hear_ you do anything at all. You dragged me all the way to your place even if we could’ve gotten to mine in half the time. Then, after three flights of stairs, you made me enter your apartment under oath to keep my eyes closed until you said otherwise—which honestly got me thinking if I’d forgotten my own birthday or something, expecting a surprise party. Not funny at all.” He could swear on another eye-roll taking place. “Then, you switched the light on, and now what is it that I am waiting for?”

“You very well just answered your own question! My freaking word of command, is what!”

Brian shook his head disbelievingly, but kept his cool. “Roger, I’m serious. I’m knackered and I’m not in the mood for silly games.”

Roger exhaled sharply once again. “Brian, won’t you just humor me and stop poking right at my ego just for a couple of minutes? I know you’re bored, but you’ve sat through worse, haven’t you? All those physics lessons can’t have been any better than sitting here next to your fucking incredible boyfriend, even if you _do_ have to play blind for a fucking little while.”

“I’ll have you know that physics is beyond interesting to anyone with enough intelligence to grasp it,” Brian said casually, as if his words implied nothing at all, particularly working hard to keep his tone at bay, as he often found himself getting a little too defensive when his degree came to be criticized.

“Ugh, don’t even start again. This is not the time for you to start whining about your goddamned extinguished intellectual aspirations—I can’t even believe you’re still dragging them along to wave around every time you feel like pointing out your superiority!”

“I’m not the one who started this, and—“

“ _Alright_ Brian— _fine._ Just give me a second.”

Grunting his resignation, the drummer hopped to his feet and, in a few short steps, reached the light switch. He flicked it back off and the room fell dark.

“You can look now,” he announced, all annoyed.

Brian May fluttered his eyelids open and was welcomed by a sight of pure darkness. Even the curtains had been drawn together so no electrical light could do anything about the situation. His eyes struggled to adjust, because it felt like there was something off about it all, except he couldn’t quite put his finger on what exactly that could be. It was really dark, but not quite, and… He blinked exaggeratedly for a set of moments, to show the most respect he could summon for his lover in the situation to make sure he wasn’t missing anything, but was met by disappointment.

“Roger…”

“You’re supposed to look _up_ ,” Roger elaborated in a somewhat small voice, and Brian curiously obeyed.

He found that the celling was only barely illuminated by fluorescent material that, upon closer inspection, he believed to be shaped in little stars.

“They didn’t have enough time to charge,” Roger started to explain, “or whatever it is they do. I was supposed to let them absorb some light for a while, and then they’d glow, but I honestly didn’t realise it would take forever, I mean what kind of toys are they even selling to kids nowadays, obviously not even _you_ have enough patience with them, let alone a kid, and—“

“Roger, did you go out to a toy store to buy me glowing stars?”

“I didn’t necessarily roam toy stores to find you a gift, no,” snapped Roger sardonically.

Brian reached into the darkness in an attempt to locate his lover. He touched a shoulder and moved in the general direction until he had his arms wrapped around Roger’s neck, but he allowed a safe distance between them, so that in ideal conditions, they would’ve been able to look into one another’s eyes. Finally, he hummed disbelievingly as a response, which provoked Roger enough to dive in closer and capture his lips, the kiss working to ease his distress over the partial failure that brought his romantic ability mercilessly into light. Or rather the lack of it.

“How very thoughtful of you,” Brian mumbled into his lips in a small pause, before Roger wrestled his tongue for cooperation, his fingers finding their way to Brian’s surprisingly untangled curls. “Incredibly romantic too, I mean who would’ve thought that—“

Roger was grateful to have the circumstances hide the blush that had creeped on his cheeks. “Don’t say another word,” he started his warning, and, raising on the balls of his feet, he positioned his lips close to Brian’s ear, his voice dropping to a whisper, “or I’ll fuck you until you can only beg for more and regret ever mocking my attempts to show how I love you.”

Brian had to gulp to give himself a moment to collect the swirling thoughts that the sudden rush of arousal stirred. “Fucking me in the way you so aptly described has already shown me how dear I am to you, but Roger, these glowing stars are just… the gesture of the century.” He kept his voice steady and serious, fully knowing which buttons to push and how.

Roger took the bait and dragged them down the well-rehearsed path to the bed, above which the majority of the fluorescent stars were tactically placed. Brian’s calves hit the edge, which was fortunately not completely unpleasant with the covers mitigating its sharpness, before they toppled over and Brian ended up below Roger. He didn’t particularly mind being stuck underneath the smaller man, in fact it didn’t bother him at all; he found the entire affair refreshingly natural which had always been the major lacking factor in all his failed romances. He loved how they’d shared breaths the whole way, their legs tangling occasionally but graciously carrying on, their limbs moving in the similar harmony they’d always had in music; the way he was never overwhelmed by dissatisfaction when their teeth would graze momentarily, which had always been a goddamn nightmare with any other, or how it was never awkward at all to pull away from one another to discard whatever it was they were wearing at the time, no matter how lengthy of a process it sometimes turned out to be.

It was for him what being in love with his best friend turned out to be like, really, and it was absolutely the best.

At first it had been quite a twist and a lot to get used to over the course of the previous month, but it felt _right_ through and through, so he stuck with it. He even let John have his couple of days to gloat over his self-proclaimed incredible match-making abilities—Freddie had been positively revolted not to have been involved in the whole matter as directly as John claimed to have been, but had calmed significantly once Brian caught him alone and told him surreptitiously that the talk they’d had had helped a whole lot too. Next time they met, he had showed up with a bag of presents, mostly consisting of extravagantly perfumed lubricants in elegant bottles and various sex toys that Brian really didn’t need to know existed. Brian had covered his face in embarrassment and Roger did nothing to support him—in fact he was too busy laughing to even notice let alone rescue his lover from any discomfort. Freddie had snickered, and, leaning forward, he’d told Brian, “Darling, if there’s not lube magically within reach wherever you find yourselves, you don’t have enough bottles”. He’d then winked, forcing even Brian to draw on the corners of his mouth, his white smile starkly contrasting against his still scarlet cheeks.

There had been quite a bit of that. Newfound enthusiasm and sexual innuendos thrown all around whenever Freddie was caught in a good mood around either of the two new lovers. Suddenly everything seemed to revolve around the fact that two of the Queen band members were fucking. Roger found it utterly hilarious each time, without exception, and Brian was starting to learn to live with it, far too much in love to find any of it worthy of a laugh. In such intense moments, he had a tendency to step aside and mingle with Deaky, who was equally unimpressed about the whole sex thing, and happy to side with Brian in letting the other two have their fun. It wasn't as though they never smiled at their two very amused friends. Freddie and Roger both had a taste for searching entertainment in just about anything and everything. But as time passed and the news aged, the entire band business went back to its natural course and things were better than ever. Because there was nothing better than falling asleep next to a snoring Roger after a long day of being a rock star.

Brian chuckled at the thought and the drummer broke away from the kiss. “Out with it,” he half-demanded, but Brian could tell that he was grinning.

“I’m just happy, is all,” he told his lover simply.

Roger leaned back down and bit on Brian’s lower lip playfully. “And _I_ am horny.”

“Aren’t you always?” concurred Brian as he was becoming increasingly more aware of a certain hardness pressing down his thigh.

“Yes, I am indeed,” the blond replied absentmindedly, largely focused on a spot on Brian’s neck he knew was really sensitive.

But the guitarist’s mind was elsewhere, and he mumbled a pointless “quite”, before returning to his adamant state of unresponsiveness.

Roger tried to get back into rhythm with a determination only he possessed. He nibbled on all of Brian’s favorite spots, tugged at his hair just the way the guitarist liked it and let his hands roam over his body in all the right moments, but nothing would do. “Well, it would be very nice of you to do something about it, you know,” he prompted as he went on.

“Mhm,” Brian affirmed but remained in his thoughtful state.

“Possibly in the very immediate future, before I burst,” Roger pushed, but his lover didn’t seem to hear him. “Brian!” he exclaimed in his frustration, parting his lips from the other man’s body very suddenly, “Where are you?”

Brian suddenly looked at him, and even in the darkness, Roger could see his warm smile. It caused his tensed brows to ease up, if only a little. “Roger, I’m really glad this happened,” the guitarist said very seriously.

Letting a snort escape him, Roger shook his head. “Of course, yeah, me too. I mean I _did_ plan all of it, you know. You should be flattered, really, the things I’m willing to do for a good shag.”

“No, not the stars,” which were by now nearly invisible, swallowed by the world that did not supply them any light to allow them to glow. “I mean us. You and me. I really am grateful for it.”

It had come to him as an unexpected flood of emotion, a positively enticing one, one that had Brian say all of these impulsive declarations.

Roger sighed and shifted his position from atop of Brian. He lay down next to the other man, and thought about what was said for a bit. “I do take credit for that too,” he allowed teasingly, “it was, after all, yet another one of my brilliant ideas for a good shag.”

Brian chuckled and shook his head. He rolled to his side a little bit and brought a hand to caress Roger’s face gently. “I love you, Roger.”

With those words he meant it all, the entire collection of the most cliché moments he could think of. He loved everything this relationship had brought him. Roger’s drooling face on his favorite pillow and his protests to greet a new day through furrowed brows. And then the biggest, most innocent smile, when he’d see Brian next to him, the first thing in the morning after the blinding light. The way they’d lazily drag each other out of bed and then enjoy the hot, cascading water in the shower together, trying to start the day.

Then there were all sorts of more ordinary aspects that he’s always wanted from a relationship. All sorts of things they could do together. Like, cooking with Roger, who despite his enormously prevailing complaints against vegetarianism, loved every bite of the vegetable stews they chopped and cooked together (except the occasional disastrous incidents of burnt food, when they’d get distracted by more alluring activities that could be done on just about any flat surface in the kitchen). He even found himself accepting of the unnecessarily dangerous ride to the grocery store, because Roger gloating over the fact that his ‘obscene’ driving never resulted in the spilling of any grocery bag – _ever_ , was far too precious. Even strumming his guitar when he had something to work on felt more meaningful when he had Roger around to mock every new unfinished lyric he could come up with. And of course it was exceptionally nice when the drummer was tired and would forget that they were playing in a band together for a living, and he’d lay on the couch, lazily flipping through channels on the television, with the sound practically turned off so he could pretend not to listen to Brian play.

He loved the way they could bicker like an old married couple over the most absurd little things, and then sort it out in the bedroom like a pair of teenagers. The way that, out of nowhere, he started experience their years-long friendship completely differently, which had resulted in them knowing each other so perfectly that it no longer felt like a consequence of life being the way it was, but a constant feeling of being in a team instead. He loved how Roger made it feel so easy and completely normal for their relationship to progress the way it had. How he was never allowed any space for questioning if what they were doing was right, or to worry if it would all come tumbling down one day. Roger had showed him how to make the best of what he had in the very moment he had it, and to work on keeping it as well as he could. He taught him that there was no need to search for morally accepted perfection, because loving each other meant much more.

Despite all their flaws, big or small, they knew each other far too well, so that they couldn’t screw it up even if they tried.

And in that moment, when Roger said, “I love you too, Brian,” he was absolutely certain they meant the very same thing.

This time Brian moved in for a kiss. It turned passionate very quickly and he was back to the more obvious of pleasures that being with Roger introduced him to. They made love in the warm confines of the bed and fell asleep in each other’s arms that night.

A few evenings later, when the exploration of the glowing stars in the wake of making good use of Freddie’s gifts had finally lost its novelty, giving way to less immediate contemplations, a thought came to Brian.

“So how did you get them, anyway?”

Roger looked up at the guitarist, confused. “Get what?” he wondered sincerely.

“The stars,” Brian explained.

“Oh. _Those_.”

“Yeah.”

Roger fell quiet for a moment, and smiling mischievously, he eyed the fluorescent little stars on the ceiling.

“Nicked them from John’s little Robert’s room, of course.”

**The End**


End file.
